


Quondam Memories

by cabintardlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Past Drug Use, Pre-Slash, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-12 17:03:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2117859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabintardlock/pseuds/cabintardlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock didn't think of the past often. He  had abandoned his given first name and dyed his hair black, nowadays he was virtually unrecognizable from what he was back then. Sherlock thought there was no way his history would ever come up again. Looking at the drunken man before him, Sherlock realized he was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=131627641#t131627641) prompt on the kink meme. All parenthesized words are Sherlock's thoughts.

“You're so gorgeous... If you moan prettily for me, I might even give you a tip.”

The voice snarled into his ear, circling around for a moment before Sherlock could discern the individual words. Through a hazy curtain of morphine and whatever else was in the syringe, whatever else shielded him from the indelible reality, he could hear himself start to moan.

To Sherlock's ears, it sounded like a sob.

The customer didn't notice. They never did. He sped up, thrusting harder and harder into Sherlock. If he could feel it, Sherlock supposed it might be painful. Or perhaps it was supposed to be pleasurable. He always got the two mixed up.

When he finally finished, the client let out a throaty shout (a cry of victory, victory over what? over Sherlock?) and slumped onto Sherlock's back. Breathing heavily, almost panting, he rolled onto his back on the filthy bed, peeling off the condom. Did he know about all the stains (semen, blood, cocaine, tears) littering the mattress? If he did, he surely wouldn't lay on it, being a respectable banker leading a fairly comfy life.

“Did you come?” the hoarse voice grunted, staring at him through lazy, half-slitted eyes. Sherlock hadn't moved from his position on his stomach.

“Yes.” Sherlock said, used to lying. When he said no, the customers would sometimes take it upon themselves to pleasure him. It never ended well.

The banker left, throwing the aforementioned tip on the bed. He handed the rest of the fee to Damien, who had been standing outside waiting. Only when Damien waltzed (he didn't walk, never just walked) through the door did Sherlock sit up.

“I need another hit.”

“Oh William (never Sherlock, always William), you had one already, and you've only been through three customers! Surely you'll be fine for one more client.” he lilted as he scooped up the meager tip from the grimy bed.

“No, it's wearing off! Please!” he pleaded. His dignity was long gone, thrown away in a sea of cracked syringes, used condoms, and soiled sheets.

Sighing, Damien withdrew a small bottle from his pocket, saying “Fine, but only for you darling. Enjoy, but hurry it up, the next client will arrive soon.”

As Sherlock greedily clutched the bottle and went through the familiar motions of filling the syringe, he felt a wave of relief. He could never be sober, never, because if he was, all of this would become real.

* * *

Sherlock didn't think of the past often. He had abandoned his given first name and dyed his hair black, nowadays he was virtually unrecognizable from what he was back then. Coupled with the fact that Mycroft “took care of” Damien, Sherlock thought there was no way his history would ever come up again.

Looking at the drunken man before him, Sherlock realized he was wrong.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, everything in parentheses are Sherlock's thoughts!

It was quite unfortunate that the only one who actually saw the suspect was a bumbling drunk, who was obviously not cooperating with Lestrade, much to his displeasure. Lestrade's downfall was that he only had one persona, the hardened police officer who was determined to solve the case. Sherlock, on the other hand, had so many different characters that he could slip into with ease, using them to coax whatever he wanted from people.

Motioning for John to follow him, he sauntered up to the unwilling witness, plastering on his best charming smile. This drunken haggard would be easy to get information out of, he just had to use the right tactics. Predictable.

Except that the intemperate drunkard's eyes lit up with recognition when he saw Sherlock.

“William!” he cried out as he staggered toward Sherlock, looking him over (spending extra time on neck, hips, and groin.)

Sherlock froze, smile dropping from his face as he heard the name. _Will_ _iam_ _._ There was only one time in his life that he had used that name, and it was a time he was not so eager to revisit, especially in front of John.

_John._

He spun around to see at John, who was looking quizzically between Sherlock and the man. He didn't know what was happening (yet) and most likely assumed the man mistook Sherlock for someone else.

“Sherlock?” John asked, a hint of amusement creeping into his tone, “Do you know him?”

“I was one of his clients, if you know what I mean!” he laughed as his eyes continued to sweep greedily over Sherlock (disgusting, it made him feel disgusting.)

“If you were one of his clients, you should understand the importance of giving your statement.” Lestrade interjected, unaware that his assumption was so very wrong, unaware that Sherlock's mind was screaming at him, unable to form a coherent thought.

“What?” Sherlock's 'client' said, “What would that (run) have to do with anything? If anything, it would be the opposite, (Run) wouldn't it? With the whole dealing with the police (RUN) deal.”

“Look,” John (loyal John) said, “I think you may have the wrong person. His name isn't William, it's Sherlock.”

“No way! William, you've changed a lot, with the hair and the posh clothes, but you're still William. Definitely you. Ha, I would know, I've fantasized about those cheekbones more than a few times! You seem a bit more high class now, how much do you go for?”

“Sorry, what?” John asked, too confused to understand (John didn't want to understand (didn't want John to understand)) and seemingly a bit flustered by the fantasizing remark.

Lestrade didn't say a word, only looking at the man through narrowed eyes.

“No.” Sherlock croaked, unable to say anything else, unable to even move. Unable to run, to escape from his past.

“Oh, I understand, not in front of the police. Do you want to go somewhere more private and work this out?” he cackled, reaching a hand out to Sherlock, who flinched away.

“Oi, you can't leave, we still need your statement!” Lestrade protested, looking carefully at Sherlock. He didn't know what the man was referring to, but he knew it wasn't Sherlock's services as a consulting detective. Sherlock wished it could stay that way.

“No.” Sherlock repeated, stepping away from the man's grubby fingers.

His eyes narrowed at Sherlock, angry at what he saw as a rejection.

“What, you think you're too good for me now? You think I can't afford you?” he snarled, swaying back and forth.

Sherlock felt the color drain from his face, because he knew (dreaded) what was coming next. Broken from the spell, he pivoted around and started walking briskly away.

“Come along John, we need to go.” Sherlock called, not turning back.

“You dirty, filthy whore, I know you liked being on your back for me! You think you're so much better now, but you didn't have much dignity while I was pounding into you! You're still the same desperate slut!”

Sherlock could hear John's footsteps stop behind him, he could hear him turn around. Sherlock didn't stop. He didn't turn around. He ran.

No one followed him, but he kept running. Sherlock didn't know where he was going, but he just had to keep running. Maybe if he ran enough, he could finally escape from his memories, from the past that had tainted his life. Maybe he could escape the judgment and disgust on their faces. Maybe he could stop Lestrade informing him that with his history, they could no longer call him in on cases. Maybe he could postpone John moving out and leaving him alone (heartbroken) in an empty flat.

Maybe.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Greg stood in shocked silence as Sherlock started running, still processing those words. He'd been aware that Sherlock was a junkie, hell, he'd known Sherlock when he was a junkie. Helping him get clean was something Greg was quite proud about.

Still, he never imagined that Sherlock had gotten caught up in something like prostitution. Seeing Sherlock the way he was now, so proud, it was hard to picture him doing something like that.

Looking at John, Greg was sure it was even more of a shock for him, seeing as he'd only seen Sherlock as the cavalier consulting detective.

“Fucking whores.” the man muttered, still swaying side to side.

What happened next was too fast for Greg to see, but the next thing he knew the drunk idiot was on the ground and John was standing over him, the knuckles on one of his fists splitting and looking positively murderous. Greg rushed forward and pulled John away from him.

“Oi, he's still a witness, and you can't assault him!” Greg said.

John didn't seem to register his words, but didn't go after the guy again.

“You will never talk about Sherlock that way again. I don't know who the fuck 'William' was back then, but he's Sherlock now, and if you ever breathe another word about him to anyone, I swear I will hunt you down.” John growled, stopping to lean down and whisper something into the man's ear. Lestrade couldn't hear what John said, but he could see the man's pace drain of color. “Do we understand each other?”

The man could only nod as John turned away from him.

“Look, I'd better go find Sherlock. And about this whole mess, you won't say anything to anyone else, will you?” John said, the anger being quickly replaced by concern.

“Of course, not a word.” Greg said, still rather shocked by John's outburst.

“Thanks, mate.” John said as he walked in the direction Sherlock had left as fast as he could without running. There was nothing to belie how upset he must have been, except that when Greg looked very closely, he could see just a hint of a limp in John's strides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small chapter, but I hope you enjoyed!


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock eventually returned to 221B, finding the flat cold and empty. For one horrible moment, Sherlock thought John had somehow moved out before Sherlock could return. This was of course, ridiculous, as all of his belongings were still in their places.

Still, John wasn't there. Sherlock figured he'd probably gone to Sarah's (lingering resentment towards her, she was the piece of normal he could never provide for John), or perhaps Harry's. He'd been trying to reconnect with her after all. Perhaps if he was really distraught, he would've gone to talk with Ella. She had one of those ridiculous “my doors are always open” policies.

Sherlock found himself sitting in John's armchair, wondering how long it would take for John to move out. The last time someone had found out about his past “profession” they'd recoiled, not even wanting to touch him. They acted as if Sherlock was still dirty, permanently stained by that filth (semen, blood, cocaine, tears).

Sherlock preferred to be viewed as a freak. At least then, people didn't treat him like an object, as if he was still the same person (whore) that he was back then.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he heard footsteps thudding up the stairs, tensing as he recognized them. A part of him knew it was better to just get it over with, but Sherlock truly didn't want to. In the time before John confronted him, he could at least imagine (delude himself into hoping) John wouldn't be angry and repulsed.

The door swung open and John strode in, pausing momentarily as he saw Sherlock. Sherlock refused to turn around, refused to hasten the inevitable.

“Sherlock! Thank God, I've been running around half of London looking for you.” John exclaimed as he approached Sherlock.

“Why?” Sherlock said coldly, causing John to pause.

“Sorry?” John said, circling around the armchair, standing in front of Sherlock.

“Why would you go looking for me?” he said, staring through John as if he were invisible, eyes never flicking up to take in John's face.

“Well, you were upset, obviously, and I care about you. Listen, we don't have to discuss this if you don't want to, the past is in the past. Just know that I'm available if you ever do need to talk, I'm here for you. Lestrade won't say a word, and I made sure that drunken arsehole wouldn't say anything. So, what I guess I'm trying to say is that your secret is safe.” John said, trailing off and shifting awkwardly, not knowing what to do.

Sherlock was floored. It seemed there was no end to the enigmatic parts that comprised John Watson. Realizing he had yet to respond, Sherlock looked up at John's unflinchingly honest (disdain free) expression, finding himself lost for words.

His face seemed to soften as Sherlock met his eyes, what looked like relief flooding his features. John reached out and placed a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock, not expecting John to want to initiate physical contact (ever again), flinched away.

John stiffened and snatched his hand away, obviously believing he had triggered some sort of painful memory, that his touch was unwelcome. Foolish.

Sherlock reached out and grasped John's wrist as he pulled back, and in one fluid motion, he pulled John close to him. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what he was doing, he just felt this strange insatiable urge to be nearer to John. His John.

“Sherlock!” John cried (squeaked) as he was pulled haphazardly into Sherlock's lap. He sprawled sideways on the chair, and Sherlock huddled over him almost protectively.

“Why do you continue to be so unpredictable?” Sherlock breathed, curtain of curls hiding his face.

“Unpredictable?” John muttered, pointedly squirming as Sherlock's hold on him tightened. “I'd say you're the unpredictable one.”

“'Normal people' wouldn't want to touch someone who's filthy. They would've been disgusted, they would've left. But you're not like that. You're unpredictable.”

“Filthy? Sherlock, you are not filthy.” John insisted, sitting up a bit. “And I wouldn't leave you because of your past. Christ, that's what you thought? I really am an idiot.”

Sherlock chuckled (without humor), but he didn't look up. “I am filthy John. No matter what I do, it'll never wash off.”

“Sherlock, you are so many things that are completely apart from whatever happened in your past.”

“Like what?” Sherlock whispered, going through all of the “compliments” he'd ever received. He hoped John wouldn't ever call him anything (gorgeous, pretty, delectable, fuckable, flexible, docile, easy) like that.

“Well, for starters, you're the world's only consulting detective. You're arrogant, hardheaded, stubborn, childish, and absolutely never boring. You are completely brilliant, which I'm sure I've told you a million times over, and I will never stop telling you. You're different and unique, you're not like anyone I've ever met. You saved me, and everyday I'm grateful that I found you, and that you let me be in your life. You're Sherlock Holmes.” John said, sounding rather embarrassed at parts.

Sherlock had his eyes closed while John spoke, letting John's words wash over him.

“I truly don't deserve you, John Watson.” Sherlock said, raising his head to look at John, who was still in his lap.

“You know what they say, broken things attract each other.” John murmured, looking Sherlock in the eye (what color are John's eyes? Sherlock couldn't quantify it.) “Now, can I get up yet?”

“No.” Sherlock said, smiling faintly. “Let's just stay like this for a moment (stay happy forever).”

John sighed affectionately, but acquiesced to Sherlock's request. He always did in the end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was the end! Sorry I didn't make it longer, and sorry to those who thought it would be, I might make a sequel but I'm really not sure. I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
